


Rushing In With A Hope But No Plan

by LemonPetitFour



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Injury, M/M, The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings, Third-degree burns, Whump, can be read as shipping or platonic, however you would like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 19:13:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30077004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonPetitFour/pseuds/LemonPetitFour
Summary: Dandelion rushes into the flaming building when Geralt decides to chase after Loredo rather than save the elven women. Dandelion gets burnt, badly, on his hands. The fearsome Scoia'tael commander tends to his wounds.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Iorveth/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 68





	Rushing In With A Hope But No Plan

He didn’t know what else to do. Geralt had run off, chasing down that commandant. No one else in this town would help the elf women if not the witcher. 

So Dandelion, in a bout of panic and fear for the safety of those elves, rushed into the building. He kicked the door down, scrambled up the ladder. The flames licked at his skin, lashing out like a whip towards any exposed bits it could. The elf women were crying, resigned to their fate, not calling for help since Loredo had abandoned them. They lit up upon seeing Dandelion dart up the stairs.

“Untie us! Please!” One of them cried, wriggling around in her binds. Dandelion pulled out a dagger, gifted to him by Geralt years ago, making quick work of the first elf’s bindings. He ushered her to jump out the window, into the cool water below to escape the heat, and she went with little hesitation.

He moved onto the second woman, flames picking up and building groaning. He could hear wood splintering and shattering apart under the heat around him but focused on his task of cutting through painfully tight rope. He had priorities that he refused to not see to out of fear.

The second elf woman stood shakily as Dandelion finished freeing her, grabbing onto the bard warily. He helped her to the balcony as quick as he could, helping her over carefully before going back for the last woman. He could have sworn he heard some rough voice calling his name from below, but he still had one more person to help before he could listen to them.

The last elf was shaking, coughing from the smoke that sat heavy in the room. A slat of wood fell to the right of Dandelion, aflame and sending out embers as it clattered to the ground. The building groaned louder, protesting the flame attacking it. Dandelion cut the final binds as quick as he could, helping the woman stand. He pulled her arm over his shoulder, taking the weight of her as he moved to the doorway. He stepped forward, going as quickly as he could, almost ou-

A flaming beam slammed down across the doorway to the balcony, blocking their path. The bard looked behind himself, taking in the crumbled ladder that no longer could help them leave. He steeled himself, helping the elf woman stand on her own. Dandelion grabbed the beam, the wood searing into the skin of his palms, his fingers, and lifted. He held it out of the way, straining against the weight.

“Go!” He shouted, and the woman darted out with far more energy than Dandelion thought she had left. And then he slid under, hands singing with pain. And he dove over the balcony, leaping down into the cool river below.

-

Uncareful hands fished him out of the river. He heard shouting over the deck, voices and footsteps running amok around him. He heard crying and sniffling beside him. He pulled his eyes open, peering around him. Elves went about, pulled at ropes and shifting wooden beams, urging the boat onwards with the help of the wind. Iorveth’s group. The elves must have pulled him out.

His eyes went to shut again, exhausted, when a hand grabbed him roughly. He cried out at the touch, the hand on his arm jolting his excruciating hand. He looked down as he was manhandled up, someone hissing in his ear. He couldn’t process any of the words. He was too focused on his ruined hands to hear them. They were horrid, skin raised, some patches white and dead while others were charred black.

The hand on his arm practically dragged him across deck, then below. It sat him down roughly on some furs that were in need of a good wash. Blood splattered them, dried and dark. Dandelion looked up from his marred hands, turning to the side.

The prison barge..? So this is what it looked like inside. And in front of him was… Iorveth. Dandelion started at the closeness, the elf right up in his face, staring him down with his one eye. Dandelion shifted, uncomfortable under the gaze.

Iorveth huffed, backing up with a scowl. He held out his gloved hand, palm up. Dandelion stared. The commander tsked.

“Give me your hand, dh’oine, unless you want to lose use of it.” He spat. His gaze was hard, aggressive. But Dandelion was used to being with people who masked their emotions. Iorveth was concerned, the bard saw it in the way his brow quirked up in a furrow just enough to give him away. Dandelion placed his hand in Iorveth’s, palm up to keep his flesh from being touched and irritated.

Iorveth pulled out a canteen, pouring water over one of the hands, then he took the other and did the same. Dandelion hissed, the cool water sending an unpleasant shock up his arm where it touched his intact skin. The dead and charred skin tingled unpleasantly, leaving an unsettling feeling in the pit of Dandelion’s stomach.

And then Iorveth reached for the knife strapped to his chest, pulling out the wicked blade. Dandelion flinched, trying to pull away. Surely he wouldn’t..?

Iorveth snarled, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him close again.

“Hold _still_ , unless you want to lose your hands,” He said, anger giving way to concern once more. You couldn’t fool Dandelion, “I’m cutting the dead flesh off, it’s of no use to you now, dh’oine.” Dandelion let the commander pull at his wrist until he could cradle his hand again. And he dug his knife in.

He was careful. He looked rugged, sharp and strong, but he held the same grace and care that elves were often characterized with. He was only a bit taller than Dandelion himself, but he was broad and even under all those layers the bard could tell he was muscled. Probably lean, leading more to him being agile and flexible. Nothing would suit the commander more.

His hands hurt, ached, muddled his mind with their pain. He let himself drift mentally, not wanting to be present enough to feel it all. He listened numbly to the voices around him, felt the waves under him. Surely the Scoia’tael were tending to their injured brothers and sisters, as Iorveth tended to him now.

Iorveth sliced away carefully, revealing red, bloody flesh underneath. Dandelion stared down, feeling panic surge through him at the sight of blood dripping sluggishly down his hand.

“It will heal if you let me work, Ymladda. Cáelm.” And Dandelion did. He knew his elder speech. Even if it was a bit shaky here and there. A good poet was one with many-a-language under their belt.

Iorveth treated his other hand the same, white and black skin falling down to the wooden floor to reveal red. Iorveth ran water over the hands again, rubbing a gloved hand of his own over the skin. Dandelion pulled away at the touch, instinctual at the pain that encompassed the feeling, Iorveth shooting him a glare. He relaxed again, lending his hand back. Iorveth turned, snapping and speaking so quick in elder speech that Dandelion couldn’t pick it up.

Another elf came up, handing off a small jar and some bandages. Iorveth turned back to Dandelion. He reached into his leather, some pocket inside, pulling out a small cloth. He dried Dandelion’s hands, pressing tight to slow the bleeding. Dandelion hissed, but kept from pulling away. He must be numb to the pain. As numb as he could get, as the ache still rocked up his arms. He felt like here was cotton in his ears, his head. Iorveth shot him a look, then hummed.

“Lie down, dh’oine,” Iorveth said, letting go of Dandelion’s hands to push him back. He looked up, confused. His vision was a bit blurred, spotted black.

“You look like you’re going to faint on me. Down.” He pushed harder, forcing Dandelion to lay on the furs under him. His head was swimming with the change. He felt Iorveth holding his hands again, rubbing something on them. Dandelion closed his eyes tight. Surely he would be sick with how hard the boat was rocking under him…

Something was wound around his hands. A voice spoke, not quite reaching through the hum in his ears. Something tapped his cheek, and he blinked his eyes open. The commander leant over him, brow furrowed again.

“Awake, Ymladda. For a bit longer. Wait until the vatt’ghern gets back. Don’t want him fretting over you.” The elf said. Dandelion nodded. Geralt was a worrywart, cared far too much for those he loved. And even with the nod, Dandelion’s eyes started to drift closed again. He was exhausted, adrenaline gone, pain so overwhelming.

“Ymladda!” Iorveth snarled, patting his cheek again, a bit more forcefully. Dandelion frowned, opening his mouth to try and speak. He choked on his words. He was far too overwhelmed. Iorveth cursed under his breath, shifting to move Dandelion so Iorveth leant against the ship wall and the bard leaned against his chest. He wrapped his arm around the bard’s chest, holding him.

“Cáelm, cáelm. Don’t cry bard. Gwynbleidd will have my head if you’re crying in my care.” And Dandelion _was_ crying, hot tears running down his face. Oh, surely this would dampen his charismatic reputation. But Iorveth was warm and surprisingly comforting in his strong silence, so Dandelion didn’t work himself up, let himself calm down.

He idly worried for his hands. His lute. He would play again, right? Iorveth said he would heal, right?

“I play instruments as well bard,” Iorveth said, rough voice rumbling in Iorveth’s chest, Dandelion feeling the vibration, “You will be alright. The burns are bad, horrid, I won’t lie. You couldn’t have been any more foolish in there,” He felt the elf shake his head, “But you will be fine. We have strong salves for these situations, and herbs and medicine if need be.” Dandelion felt himself relax mentally over the sake of his hands.

“You play?” He asked, voice cracking and rough. He had inhaled quite a bit of smoke. He saw Iorveth wave an elf down from the corner of his eye.

“Mhmm.” He said.

“What do you play.” The bard asked, resting his head back on Iorveth’s shoulder. Iorveth brought his canteen to Dandelion’s lips, the bard taking a swig of the water.

“Flute, mostly. Lots of woodwind instruments,” He said, “Played the harp when I was younger. Had steady hands for it.” Iorveth said. Dandelion hums. There’s still bustling around on the ship. They’ve set off it seems. Where was Geralt?

And, speak of the devil, the white wolf came barreling down the stairs. He looked around, a little frantic, until he finally spotted Dandelion and the commander. He relaxed, looking a bit confused underneath his relief.

“Heard you leapt into a flaming building.” Geralt said as he moved forward, crouching in front of Dandelion. He looked at him, checking him over. He frowned when he saw the bard’s hands.

“He’ll be fine,” Iorveth spoke up, still holding Dandelion close, “He saved our women, I’ve repaid him by tending to his worse burns and giving him some needed company.” Geralt smirked.

“You two do seem rather comfortable.” He said, sitting down in front of Dandelion.

“Someone had to make sure he stayed awake until you got here,” Iorveth said, and then “I don’t care to think what you would do to me if you found me holding your bard, bandaged and unconscious.” Geralt huffed.

“You speak of me like I’m an animal protective of it’s fellow beast.” He said, adjusting some buckles on his armor.

“Well, you have the name Gwynbleidd for a reason.” Iorveth said. Geralt rolled his eyes. He looked over Dandelion again, that same concern creeping into his face again.

“Really, I’ll be fine,” Dandelion said, waving a bandaged hand, “Just tired.” His voice was a bit smoother; the water having helped sooth his aggravated throat. Geralt nodded.

“Rest. We have time before we reach Vergen.” Geralt said. Dandelion shifted, turning his head to look at the elf who held him, asking permission. Iorveth shrugged.

“Fine, sleep. If my elves need me they’ll come to me.” He said. Dandelion smirked, shifting back further to get comfortable against Iorveth, the elf grunting at the press. The bard closed his eyes, finally resting.

-

Geralt watched the bard’s breathing even out, falling into the pull of sleep. He smiled, glad the bard could relax and heal now. Geralt looked at Iorveth and gestured at the bard’s hands.

“What did you dress him with?” He asked. Iorveth leaned his head back against the boat wall, closing his eye. Geralt took it as an impressive show of trust from the alert elf.

“It’s an elven salve. Heals incredibly quick. Normally used for intense burns of either the cold or hot variety.” He said. Geralt nodded.

“Thank you. For helping him. Don’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t play that lute again.”

“He saved our women. We were indebted.” The elf said. Iorveth was a man of deals and exchanges, something Geralt found interesting. It was honorable, something that people didn’t normally associate with an elf as vicious as Iorveth. But seeing him here—holding Geralt’s bard as gently as he was—was an interesting sight that opened up a new door to the multi-faceted personality Iorveth tucked away.

Geralt leaned back on his hands, looking at the two, their eyes closed as they rested. Geralt did the same, feeling safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Kudos and Comments are appreciated.


End file.
